Little Belle's Mama

This weekend is Mother’s Day, and as I sit here thinking about how fast time is flying, I can hardly believe this is my third one. I still remember my first Mother’s Day so clearly—my daughter was just three months old, all snuggled up, barely holding her head up on her own, but already holding my whole heart. That first year felt like a dream. A whirlwind of emotions, learning curves, and beautiful chaos. And now, she’s this spirited little toddler who runs, talks, and makes me laugh every single day.

She’s been going to daycare for almost a year now, and honestly, it’s been such a wonderful experience for both of us. Watching her grow more confident, more social, and more expressive has been one of my greatest joys. I know she’s in good hands there (I hope all the time), and I’m constantly touched by how thoughtful and involved the caregivers are—not just with the kids, but with us parents too.

Today, she came home with a Mother’s Day gift she made at daycare, and I genuinely wasn’t prepared for how emotional it would make me. It was a handmade flower—a popsicle stick as the stem, two green paper leaves, and on top, a little white flower cutout with her red handprint in the center. Right under the print, someone had helped her write “Ich habe dich lieb, Mama” with a tiny heart.

I could barely hold back tears. It wasn’t just adorable—it was meaningful. Her handprint, right there in bright red paint, frozen in time. I just kept staring at it, thinking how small her hand still is, but how big a place she already holds in my heart. It’s wild how something so simple can carry so much weight.

I know she probably didn’t fully understand what she was making. To her, it was just paint and paper and play. But to me? It was everything. It was a reminder of how loved I am. How much she’s grown. And how these early years—these sometimes exhausting, always magical years—are filled with the most beautiful moments if we just stop long enough to see them.

There’s something so honest about a child’s handmade gift. It’s not about perfection; it’s about intention. It’s messy paint and crooked cuts and glue that might not fully dry—but it’s also love, innocence, and effort. It’s a tiny hand reaching out to say, “I love you,” in the only way she knows how right now.

I think about that first year when she was just a baby, and how Mother’s Day back then felt more like a quiet acknowledgment of a new title—Mom. I was still figuring out how to be one. Still learning how to soothe her cries, read her cues, find moments to breathe. But now, in year three, motherhood feels different. It’s more rooted. It’s more chaotic, yes—but also more full of laughter, personality, and sweet surprises like this one.

This gift made me pause and take stock. Because sometimes it’s easy to get caught up in the routine—waking her up gently, helping her into her clothes for the day, making sure baby dinosaur and her little water bottle are packed, and then rushing to the car so we can all make it to work on time. The mornings are full and fast, and it’s easy to forget how precious these small, everyday moments really are.

But then something like this flower shows up, and suddenly, time slows down. I see her handprint, and I’m reminded that she won’t be this little forever. That one day, her hand will be bigger than mine. That one day, these crafts will stop coming home in her backpack. And I’ll miss it.

So today, I held that flower close. I kissed her chubby cheeks. I told her I loved it—and I meant it with every fiber of my being. Because this isn’t just a Mother’s Day gift. It’s a keepsake of who she is right now. A piece of her childhood, captured in red paint and a few sweet words.

To the caregivers who helped her make it: thank you. You’re doing so much more than filling the hours of our children’s days—you’re helping shape memories, build love, and create moments that will stay in our hearts long after the crafts come down from the fridge.

This Mother’s Day, I don’t need breakfast in bed or a spa day or anything fancy. I have this little red handprint. I have a happy, thriving daughter who calls me Mommy with a smile. And I have the quiet, overwhelming joy of watching her become herself—one day, one moment, one craft at a time.

If you’re a mom reading this and you’re in the thick of the early years—tired, stretched, and wondering if the little things matter—I promise you, they do. The sticky fingers, the toddler songs, the spontaneous hugs, and yes, even the sleepless nights—they all add up to something unbelievably beautiful.

I’ll treasure this third Mother’s Day not because of a gift, but because of what it represents: love, growth, and the privilege of being her Mommy.

And truly, there’s no greater gift than that.